


Wherever We Fall

by a_hessdalen_light



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras is a famous actor, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grantaire is adorable, Grantaire is scared, Homophobia, M/M, Road Trip, Shy Grantaire, small town, sort of not really Leading Lady au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3114647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_hessdalen_light/pseuds/a_hessdalen_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a famous actor, researching his part in a new movie by travelling through the South African countryside. Grantaire is a very shy and very gay artist who has spent his life caught in a small town with an alarming amount of heterosexual people and no chances for relationships.<br/>A road trip ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Could Slow Down

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first dive into the Les Mis swimming pool. This will -hopefully- be updated weekly. It is vaguely inspired Leading Lady (which is a cute South African movie- give it a go if you have time) and Wherever This Goes by The Fray (which is where I got the title).
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> *Opens briefcase and uses lawyer voice* 
> 
> I don't own any of the characters. I'm not making any form of profit. Etc. Etc.

Enjolras can't help it. He looks nervously through the passenger side window. He knows that he followed the directions to the letter, but everything just looks the same. Endless fields. He shouldn't complain, not really, the monotony is sometimes broken by a patch of wildflowers- or a cow- there are always cows. He sighs, this isn't even some attempt at being masculine, if there was someone to ask for help, he would.

It happens when he's scanning his surroundings anxiously for the millionth time. His eye catches something vertical amongst the endless horizontal landscape that surround him. Fully aware that he is the only car on this godforsaken road, he doesn't think twice before slamming on the breaks.

Squinting, he confirms his suspicions. Someone is standing in the middle of the field. He takes a deep breath before stepping into the long grasses. He needs help. He really hopes the stranger speaks English. Hoping for French is definitely too much of a long shot.

The stranger is further away than he looks, and when Enjolras reaches him, he is slightly breathless. A treadmill definitely didn't prepare him for long slippery grass stalks and mud that seems to cling to his shoes with wet gasps as he tries to move forward.

As he approaches the person, he starts to pick out details. It's a man. He has dark curls and he is focused intently on a painted canvas, standing on an easel. Enjolras notices an empty wine bottle in the grass beside him and headphones, denting his curls.

He doesn't give much consideration to how someone listening to music loud enough to block out his footsteps in a very quiet and abandoned field would react to suddenly being touched on the shoulder. He should have, because the next thing he knows, he's looking up into the bluest eyes he has ever seen, and he does not remember how he landed on the ground.  
"Ek is so jammer!"

Enjolras just blinks. He has no idea what the stranger is saying, but he can guess the language.

"I-"

His voice comes out rough and a little dry. He clears his throat and tries again.

"Sorry, monsieur, I don't speak Afrikaans."

The man blushes.

Enjolras swallows, because now that his vision is a little brighter, he is starting to pick up some details. The man is about his age, defintely no older than twenty five. His curls are unruly and there is a smudge of green paint on his white skin. His eyes, well, the word blue doesn't do them justice.

His voice is gravelly, when he speaks. Enjolras can smell faint traces of alcohol on his breath, from where he is squatting beside him.

"Oh, well, I... uh... I said that I was sorry. I am sorry, I mean. Sorry. My English..."

He shoots Enjolras a smile that can only be interpreted as apologetic.

"I, you scared me. I didn't... mean to shove you. Are you fine? Uhm, are you okay, I mean."

Enjolras smiles and gingerly moves to a sitting position. He doesn't feel hurt. He drags a hand through his curls. He's pretty sure he didn't hit his head. He attributes the lack of memory to how fast everything happened. Enjolras frowns.

"You have quick reflexes. My name's Enjolras."

He cleans his hand on his jeans before offering it to the man. He briefly wonders if it's odd that they're still sitting. Then the man takes his hand and Enjolras has never believed in chemistry between people, but that spark he feels is definitely not static electricity.

"Grantaire."

Enjolras smiles at the unlikely coincidence of meeting someone with a French name in the middle of South Africa.

"Uh, can I... may I get you a coffee? To apologize. The town isn't far. I can show you."

"Your easel?"

Grantaire glances at the canvas with something close to disdain.  
"Damn. Right. Well I could go put it away and then we can go. Not that I would care if it was destroyed. Still, I guess I have to save the easel."

Enjolras gives the canvas another look. The field around them seems to extend perfectly into the painting. It looks like a continuation of the landscape.

"It's beautiful." Enjolras can't help but breath.

Grantaire just snorts.

"You can wait at your car." Grantaire gestures to the red Prius, standing at the edge of the field.

Enjolras was never one to shy away from people. "I think I'll walk with you, if it's all the same."  
Grantaire shrugs and starts haphazardly throwing paints into his bag.

Enjolras had hoped to learn a bit more about Grantaire on their walk, but he is gasping in a effort to keep up. Grantaire is clearly more used to strangely possessive mud. Their destination seems to be an old shed, alone in the field around them, they reach it after about ten minutes of walking in silence. Everything seems further apart in this country. Enjolras is used Paris and New York, buildings close together and reachable with a quick walk or a train ride. Here there are only cars and tiny little towns- separated by miles and miles of empty road. Cape Town had been more familiar, and he longs for anything more city-like right now.

Enjolras leans against the wall while Grantaire slides the lock open. The lock is new and looks peculiar against the backdrop of the neglected building. Grantaire carefully places his easel in the corner with his paints, but he throws the painting in as an afterthought. Enjolras makes a small noise of objection.

Grantaire looks amused and picks it up again.

"You like it so much, keep it, Apollo."

Enjolras accepts the object, which is thrust at him a little harsher than necessary.

Halfway back to the car he remembers his manners and how to breathe.

"Thank you!" He calls out to Grantaire, still several paces ahead of him.

When he doesn't reply, Enjolras starts to wonder why the man asked him to coffee if he was just going to ignore him. A few moments later though, he stops and waits for Enjolras to catch up, before walking beside him at a slower pace.

Grantaire smiles at him, and Enjolras actually feels his heart stutter. He didn't think that was even a thing that really happened.

"So, what brings you to the middle of nowhere, Frenchie?"

Enjolras doesn't know why he finds himself smiling again. He is annoyed, he hates nicknames. He is annoyed.

It takes effort to wipe the smile from his face.

"Well, I'm doing research for a movie. It's about the Anglo-Boer War."  
"So you're an actor?"

"Yes, well, usually I do theatre, but this seemed like a challenge."  
There seems to be a certain amount of mischief in Grantaire’s smile as he opens the car door.  
"Do you like challenges, Apollo?"

 

 

 

 


	2. Waste Away in this Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't tagged all the Les Amis, but I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to throw everyone in, but I'm sure as all hellfire going to try. Apologies if my faves get a bit more spotlight action. As I add characters I will edit the tags accordingly. 
> 
> What's that you say? This is a fic about a roadtrip and they aren't on the road yet? Patience young revolutionary.

Enjolras finds himself a little mystified by this strange artist. The car ride to town is mostly spent in silence. Enjolras doesn’t know what to ask, any small talk feels false, like it would be a dissonant note in a lovely, albeit silent, melody.

Grantaire speaks first. "I was wondering, why were you in the field?" Enjolras, who is staring at Grantaire's reflection on the window, doesn’t immediately realise that he has a question to answer. When he catches Grantaire's amused expression staring at him through the reflection, he can feel his face grow warmer. "I, well I was a bit lost if I'm being honest. It's hard to follow directions when everything looks exactly the same. And my GPS lost signal back in..."

There’s a pause as Enjolras desperately tries to remember the name of the town.

"Was it Bloemfontein?" Grantaire supplies.

"Yes, how did you..."

"Last piece of civilization on your way to Pretoria. I'm assuming that's where you're heading?"

"No actually, I just wanted to get a feel for the country, I'm really just driving around and talking to people I meet along the way. The more the better." Enjolras can't be sure, but he thinks he sees Grantaire's smile falter a little at that.

"How far is the town?"

"About 10 kilometers or so." Grantaire notices the blank look Enjolras is giving him and smiles.

"I don't know how to translate that into your respected and ancient system of measuring, dear Apollo. It's around this corner." Enjolras notices that Grantaire is getting a bit more confident with his English as he speaks. He says as much. "Well, I read a lot, mostly English. Not that there's anything else to do around here. I just don't get a lot of chances to practice speaking. Everyone speaks Afrikaans.Most of the older generation in our town can't even read English. "As they rounded the corner, Enjolras sees a neat little town name. Grantaire's voice is wry when he says, "Welcome to Verkeerdevlei."

"What does that translate to?" Enjolras doesn't like being out of the loop.

“Wrong Valley," Grantaire’s voice is wry. Enjolras frowns at the name. He vaguely wonders what the story behind it is, but the town- or rather lack thereof- is taking more of his attention. It is more of the same long-grass-with-occasional-tree that he has been seeing since he left the lovely city atmosphere in Bloemfontein. The only difference is that here, there were occasional one story houses with red roofing sprouting out at random intervals.

The whole town has one large road and several dirt roads branching off to a few other buildings. He spots one church, which is easily the biggest building in town, and indeed the only building taller than the trees surrounding it. He must have looked pale, because Grantaire gives him a brief pat on the knee. He ignores the bothersome sparks that shoot up his leg at the contact and focuses his energy on scanning for a coffee shop. Or a grocery store. Or cars. Or anything really.

He can’t stop himself from asking. "Where do you buy things?"

Grantaire looks highly amused now. "Welkom is the closest town, it's about two hours away, so we go there for our groceries. We just make sure that we never forget anything. All small town inhabitants are excellent list makers. Most perishables, we produce ourselves." Grantaire finishes the sentence with a surprisingly good Texan accent. Enjolras snorts, and spots another cow, standing in someone's back yard.

"Do you milk those?" He is mortified when Grantaire spots the cow and bursts out laughing.

"Apollo, we do indeed. It's easier than driving two hours to get milk every few weeks."Grantaire points to a dirt road leading to a small house, with a spacious porch and large shady trees in the backyard.

"Pull up here."

Grantaire bangs on the door. "Ep, open up! You have a customer!"

Enjolras looks doubtfully at the house. "Are you sure it's open?"

"Éponine averages one customer a year. She's actually a botanist studying some rare species of flower found only here- or something like that, you should ask her about it. The coffee shop is just for fun."

A petite blond girl opens the door. Grantaire looks mildly surprised. "Cosette, what brings you here?"

It's her turn to look confused now. "Hoekom praat jy Engels?"

Enjolras stands to the side, observing the exchange, and feeling out of place. Grantaire drags him closer. "Cosette, this is-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. Cosette shoves her way past Grantaire. "You're Enjolras. You were amazing in West Side Story. What the hell are you doing here? With Grantaire? I have to get Éponine. She won't believe me." She somehow manages to say this all with one breath, before jumping over the porch railing and sprinting in the direction of the trees.

Grantaire looks like he's used to this blonde girl, just darting out in the middle of conversations. Enjolras feels a little shell-shocked. Grantaire smiles at him, "Well, that was Cosette, she's in her final year of high school. There's a girls boarding school in Bloemfontein that she goes to. Her father is the mayor here." While he talks, he beckons Enjolras in through the open door- leading him to one of three small and mismatched tables in a room adjoining a vintage looking kitchen.

Enjolras is grateful for the comfortable chair, it's getting late and he spent most of the day driving and his muscles are still a little sore from the impromptu hiking trip. There is a comfortable lull in their conversation as Enjolras looks around. The house is clearly old, but well kept. There are a few toys lying around and he wonders if Éponine has children. He really wonders if Grantaire has children. If he's seeing anyone. It doesn't matter, Enjolras would be leaving soon. He keeps forgetting that.

He asks anyway. "So, uh..." He falters, his voice seems loud in the quiet house.

"Where do you live?" Grantaire looks a little uncomfortable. "I live next door. It used to be my father’s house... He... He died recently." Enjolras is horrified at himself. How does he always manage to pick the least comfortable subject. "I'm so sorry."

Grantaire's answer comes out as a harsh bark, "Don't be."

Before he gets a chance to elaborate, Cosette comes crashing through the door, followed by a thin dark haired woman that Enjolras assumes is Éponine. Grantaire jumps up and spins her around in a huge hug. Enjolras feels his heart drop. He doesn't see Cosette giving him a small frown.

"Enjolras, this is, my dearest sister from another mister, Éponine."

Enjolras doesn’t even bother hiding his grin at the word sister.

"Éponine, this is-"

And it seems that this isn't Grantaire's day for introducing people, because Éponine doesn't even let him finish his sentence before speaking.

"Enjolras, the famous actor who refuses to let his first name be known. And will forever be the reason I download the original Broadway cast version of every song ever."

"I've never been in the original Broadway cast of anything."

Éponine smiles mysteriously, "Oh, I know."

Enjolras just blinks and takes the coffee she offers him. He adds one sugar and sips carefully.

Grantaire gives him a disgusted look, "Dude, you can't just insult Éponine like that."

Enjolras feels his breath stutter. He has no idea what he did.

"Do you have any idea how early she gets up to milk these cows, and here you just go and drink your coffee black. That is a massive faux-pas in our culture. Is our milk, the fruit of our labors, not good enough for you?"

Enjolras is on his way to explain that he always drinks his coffee black, and to apologize profusely, when he catches sight of all of them grinning.

Right.

Humor.

He feels his face heat up and somehow he feels irrationally angry. "Very funny," he remarks dryly. "If it's all the same I think I'll go finish my coffee at the table over there." He realizes exactly how childish it is to pick up his coffee and walk the short distance to table in the furthest corner of the room, but he also finds himself not really caring.

He is one of the few actors who truly believe in his craft, and being made fun of on set isn't exactly a rarity. The media plays him of as a recluse, a sanctimonious know-it-all who is impossible to work with because of his standoffishness and his holier-than-thou attitude. So he has absolutely no problems in being isolated rather than scorned at.

It takes almost two minutes before he hears the scraping of a chair and sees Grantaire sit down next to him. Grantaire, for his part, at least has the decency to look flustered.

"Look, I didn't mean to make fun of you. We don't get a lot of new people around here. And as with most of my ideas, in retrospect, it was a shockingly bad one." There is a very real amount of self deprecation in Grantaire’s voice, and that alone causes Enjolras to look up. He can't believe that Grantaire had managed to become this disheveled in such a short space of time. His curls were in even more of a disarray and his eyes had a haunted look.

"I'm sorry, Apollo." And he sounds so sincere, that Enjolras feels his anger melt away. He glances at the window, it is dark outside. He smiles tentatively, "Do you want to walk me to some form of inn? I'm not going to try to find my way back in the dark."

Grantaire looks surprised. "Blondie, we don't even have a store with milk. What makes you think we have an inn? You can stay with me. Heaven knows I've got the room. But I am still taking you up on that walk."

Enjolras thanks Éponine for the coffee, after she completely refuses any form of payment. ('Really, now, I can't tell people I took money from The Enjolras,' there is definite sarcasm in her voice, but somehow it seems like she was joking _with_ him, and not _at_ him.)

Once outside, all Enjolras can do, is marvel at the sheer number of stars in the sky. He never knew the sky could be this beautiful. He feels giddy in the openness of the country, and with nothing but crisp air surrounding them, he grabs Grantaire's hand and pulls him along.

Grantaire doesn’t pull away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you for reading. Any critiques, wishes, question, suggestions, remarks, comments etc. are much appreciated.
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes.


	3. Standing on the Sidewalk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, so, couple of things.   
> 1) Thank you to everybody who commented, read and left kudos- you make my day so much brighter, I can't even tell you.   
> 2) It only took me 4000 words to get to the road trip part of my road trip fic. (oops)  
> 3) I have been informed that France uses kilometers and that I made a bit of a mistake in the last chapter, let's just assume that Enjolras spent a lot of time in America (I'm so sorry)

They walk, hand in hand, without saying a word. There are a million things to say, and the silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s more comfortable than what either of them can envision saying.

Eventually, Grantaire leads them to the bank of a narrow stream. Enjolras gawks a bit, he walks forward and runs his free hand through the branches of one of the massive weeping willows. Grantaire smiles at the wonder in his eyes, and grins when he hesitantly starts walking forward. Once inside, the leaves surround them, and the grass under their feet is much softer. Grantaire plops down onto his back, dragging Enjolras with him. It feels like they’re in a different world. Secluded from everything that’s expected of them- it’s utterly freeing.

Enjolras speaks first. “Do you come here often?”

Grantaire is silent as he thinks of a reply. The question is much more loaded than Enjolras realizes.

“Yeah, it’s a good escape,” he offers finally, hesitantly.

Enjolras turns his head, and Grantaire finds himself looking directly into his eyes. He feels like those eyes could be a pretty good escape, too. Their noses are almost touching. Grantaire tries hard not to over-think the situation. It’s easier than usual, surrounded by the curtain of leaves.

“What are you running from?” Enjolras’ voice is quiet, and Grantaire suddenly feels like he can tell him anything. There is a reckless freedom that comes with meeting someone who you’ll probably never see again, and Grantaire desperately needs someone to talk to. He hesitates for a final second. He knows that once he opens these floodgates, he won’t be able to stop.

He sees two options. He sees himself lying and avoiding the question, living here for the rest of his life, never divulging anything. He shudders, that isn’t an option, not really.

“My dad…”

Enjolras is quiet, as if he senses that Grantaire is about to elaborate.

“I… My dad and I had a difficult relationship. He was always very adamant that everything I do must be masculine. He insisted I play rugby in rugby-season and cricket in cricket-season. He had me taking boxing lessons and when he found my sketch pad in the sixth grade, he burned it. He… When I asked for dancing lessons… Well, let’s just say that he made sure nobody saw the damage, and that I would heal in time for the tournament the following month. When he found the…” Grantaire pauses, up until now, the words had been falling over each other to escape, but he had never told anyone this before, and he can’t believe he is about to tell a complete stranger.

He took a deep breath. Enjolras is different. He has to believe that Enjolras is different.

“When he found me reading a WikiHow about coming out to your parents, he didn’t bother hiding the damage,” Grantaire’s voice is flat.

Enjolras’ reply is immediate and harsh. “Jesus Christ. What a homophobic asshole.”

He drops Grantaire’s hand and jumps to his feet. He doesn’t notice Grantaire wincing at the loss of contact - doesn’t stop to consider how Grantaire might perceive it. He is utterly caught up in his indignation.

“I am so fucking sorry. I can’t believe a parent would do that. Well of course I can, mine weren’t exactly brilliant, but they weren’t that bad. Holy fuck. Didn’t somebody do something? I moved into a shelter for LGBT kids. Don’t you have those?”

He stops when he notices that Grantaire is quietly staring at him.

Grantaire, with wide eyes, asks, “You’re gay?”

Enjolras has to hold back his laughter.

“Didn’t you know? I’m one of a very small group of actors who are out and proud. And very dedicated to ending all forms of homophobia. The press just loves me,” he says the last sentence with no small amount of sarcasm.

Grantaire almost doesn’t ask, but he figures he got this far, so he might as well throw caution to the wind.

“Then why did you… why are you disgusted by me?”

This actually leaves Enjolras speechless: a rare accomplishment.

“I’m what?”

“When I told you, you practically sprained something in the effort to let go of my hand,” there is no anger in Grantaire’s voice, only a resigned sadness and Enjolras doesn’t thing to hard about why it feels like his heart his breaking.

“No, Grantaire, just… no. I get passionate. My friends usually reel me in I a bit. I’m sorry, I just can’t believe that nobody did something. I got a little swept away by my indignation. I have this friend- he calls it my ‘social justice reflex’”

As if to prove a point, Enjolras sits across from Grantaire and takes both his hands.

“I’m sure you could never disgust me,” he says it as if it is a basic fact of the universe.

“Did you see the church on your way in?” Grantaire’s subject change is abrupt and Enjolras takes a second to reply.

“Yeah, it’s the biggest building in the town.”

“That’s why nobody did anything. They all thought my dad was well within his rights. It’s getting better now, since Valjean- that’s Cosette’s dad, came to town. He really is trying, and Éponine is cool too, but I… I never knew how to come out to anyone. The older generation, which is most of the town, I saw the hatred in their eyes when the church organized rallies to picket the screening of Brokeback Mountain and Milk in Welkom. I don’t think I could handle that hatred directed at me. I guess I’m not as strong as you are,” Grantaire is flushed, and his voice is wobbly near the end of his sentence.

Enjolras is quiet for a long moment, considering his options. He knows, instinctively, that Grantaire is a cause worth helping. He doesn’t hear the thoughts telling him that Grantaire could be so much more than just another cause.

“Come with me?”

Grantaire frowns, “What? Where?”

“Wherever I go. Look, I’m lost in this country, I don’t know the language. I need someone with local knowledge. And you need to see that there are other places besides this town. Travel with me for a while. You can bring you’re painting stuff, and I’ll pay you.”

Grantaire resents people telling him what he needs, and there is a desperately rebellious streak in him that doesn’t know which part of Enjolras’ speech to disagree with first. His cynicism tells him that it couldn’t work. His self-doubt tells him that there are people better suited for the job. His stubbornness tells him that he can run his own life. A strange part of him is oddly offended that Enjolras wants to pay him, and a much stranger part is replaying the plot of Pretty Woman.

Yet, his answer is the easiest two words he has ever spoken. “Yeah. Okay.”

Grantaire thinks that Enjolras looks beautiful with a sincere smile.

“But you’re not paying for anything except accommodation.”

 

 


	4. Watching This Parade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the amazing Rory Phoenix who helps me come up with headcanons and force feeds me water while I drunkenly rant about capitalism and Louis XVI. And to the best Beta/personal therapist in the world- thank you Kay.

It takes about three hours of companionable driving for Grantaire to notice how easy it is to wind Enjolras up. He is feeling a little restless, but it was surprisingly easy to send Eponine a text and throw everything he would need into a suitcase. A part of him keeps waiting for the catch, keeps waiting for his dad to start yelling, or for Enjolras to claim that it was all a big joke meant to humiliate him. As the scenery rolls by, the other shoe refuses to drop, and it sets Grantaire’s teeth on edge.

He starts tapping his fingers, and it amuses him when he sees Enjolras’ jaw tightening under his usual cool exterior. He starts drumming a rhythm, purposefully out of time with the music. And when the next song on the radio’s by Taylor Swift, Grantaire couldn’t possibly be expected to not sing a horribly off-key version.

Mostly he hopes to annoy Enjolras enough that he can just stop the charade and hurry up with the inevitable. He might as well get kicked out now, before he gets attached.

Grantaire, not being well versed in the facial expressions of Enjolras, didn’t recognize the beginnings of a smile.

Honestly, Grantaire was glad the only witnesses were cows, because Enjolras singing horribly off key pop songs was enough the steal the most cynical of hearts.

As the last notes of the song echoes through the car, Enjolras glances at the clock on the dashboard.

“Is it too late for breakfast?”

“Yes. But it absolutely the right time for brunch, if you don’t have any objections to the word brunch.”

“Why, would I-“

“Oh you know, it’s a pretty girly word.”

Grantaire has never given any serious thought to how quickly someone can change facial expressions until this exact moment. He thought Enjolras was kidding with the whole “social justice reflex” thing- apparently not.

“Assigning gender to words is even more ridiculous than thinking you have the right to assign gender to people without their permission.”

Grantaire agreed wholeheartedly, but seeing Enjolras this flushed proved proper incentive to push the subject.

“Just to play devil’s advocate here-“

The waitress that seated them half an hour later had to wait a good hour before either of them were quiet for long enough to order.

Grantaire finds that seeing Enjolras like this, fighting to his last breath, he looks immortal. Enjolras finds that Grantaire is equal parts infuriating and invigorating and that he has odd urges to strangle him, but also to slowly hold his hand until he let’s go of every self-deprecating comment- because he is amazing. He can take Enjolras’ entire argument apart with a few well chosen words. He can pick at the holes and unravel years of experience like it’s a badly made scarf, and he does it with an easy smile and quoting everything from Hamlet to Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Enjolras never wants to stop talking.

Grantaire notices when Enjolras starts swallowing bites of food whole to keep talking and he's pretty sure this is the hardest he's ever laughed in his life.

“Slow down Marat, you’re going to choke, and then who’s going to whisk me away?”

The moment he speaks the words, a weight not unlike lead settles in the bottom of his stomach. He doesn’t want to be this callous. He is aware that the situation is precarious at best.

Enjolras doesn’t even notice and when he just laughs, Grantaire feels his self-esteem slipping. This is definitely a joke.

“Just stop, Enjolras.”

It must be Grantaire using his actual name that has Enjolras looking up.

“Stop what?”

He looks amused.

Of course he does.

“Stop pretending, it’ll be easier for both of us if I leave now.”

***

The words has Enjolras panicking. He can’t lose this. He knows that he and Grantaire are wildly different, but with a little work, he can see Grantaire as a major benefit to his causes.

“You can’t leave, I’m not done saving you.”

By the fire that flashes in Grantaire’s eyes, he knows that he made a mistake.

“I don’t need you to save me. I am not a cause Enjolras.”

Enjolras doesn't agree, but the hardness in Grantaire’s voice has him treading on the side of caution.

“I know that, but the empty wine bottles beg to differ.”

Enjolras really doesn’t know why he added the last part. If forced to examine his motivations, he might say that he was angry when he realized how smart Grantaire was, and how he was tossing it away. Being complicit and not fighting his circumstances.

His words are met with silence, then the clatter of Grantaire's chair falling to the ground, followed by the slamming of the café door.

Enjolras looks at the fallen chair in disbelief.

He can’t believe he managed to push another person away. It feels worse this time, somehow.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there staring at the empty space across from him. It’s enough time for the waitress to right the chair and remove the empty plates with his vague nod of consent.

***

The door rattles again and he doesn’t bother looking up.

When he becomes aware of someone next to him panting audibly, he reluctantly drags his eyes from the spot on the table that has effectively held his attention since Grantaire left.

Enjolras is, to say the least, shocked to see a disheveled Grantaire staring at him with wide eyes.

“You’re here,” Enjolras winces at the hope that he can’t keep out of his voice

Grantaire takes two gulps of air, “So are you.”

He breaths again and continues, “Apollo, you are still very wrong, but I’m not losing someone else. And this might just be the bravest thing I’ve ever done, but if you don’t want me with you anymore you're going to have to tell me. I can’t worry about this being a joke anymore. I’m going to need constant reassurance. I’ll probably get us lost and I haven’t even been in most of South Africa. There are thousands of better people you could hire.”

Enjolras blinks once, lets the words sink in and grins.

“I thought we’d start with going to Paris.”

Grantaire opens his mouth but Enjolras beats him to it.

“It’s a town here, isn’t it? In the Vrystaat?”

Enjolras mangles the Afrikaans, but Grantaire doesn’t notice. He threw all his cards on the table and Enjolras didn’t chase him away.

Enjolras probably still sees him as one of his causes. He probably still wants to save him. Grantaire doesn’t care, he’s finally escaping, and he is doing it with someone who knows more about the real him than anybody in his life thus far. The rest will just have to work itself out, somewhere along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As to what made Grantaire change his mind- You'll just have to wait and see. I know that Enj is being daft, but trust me, he'll get it eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so there might be some more Afrikaans phrases in the work, which Grantaire will translate for poor Enjolras, of course. Please ask if you have any questions or suggest if you have any suggestions or criticize if you have any critiques. 
> 
> My tumblr is a-hessdalen-light.tumblr.com  
> Come say hi.


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